In the early days he’d been so warm and frank, often slinging an arm around my shoulders or pressing my hand like it was the most natural thing in the world. Now his touchy-feelies were more big-brotherly: a nose-tweak here, a hair-ruffle there. He’d stopped sitting next to me during our planning sessions at the pub as well, taking a seat opposite as if he wanted it to be clear they were meetings and not dates. And when I occasionally offered more intimate gestures like a squeeze of the arm, I noticed him flinch. His new girlfriend must be the jealous type, I thought bitterly.
It was easy to put it out of my mind, when we were enthusiastically making plans for the lighthouse over drinks in the pub. But sometimes, alone at night, I felt a lump forming in my throat. My feelings for Ross were becoming more complicated every second I spent with him, and the more he put me at a distance, the more I couldn’t stop thinking about him.
I’d almost started to resent the Bobbie of three months ago for her stupid principles. God, if I’d just said yes when he asked me out then… I mean, even Mum, the patron saint of wronged spouses since the day she was old enough to feel guilty, didn’t seem to think Ross’s marriage-on-paper was too much of a problem. And in just a few months his legal separation period would be done with; he could finally put in a petition for divorce. He’d be free, and I’d be… too late.
I shook my head to banish unwelcome thoughts.
“So what’s in the Thermos?” I asked him with forced brightness.
“Soup. Carrot and coriander.”
“What, you made it? Didn’t know you did soup.”
“When necessary,” he said with a smile. “Did you two bring the beer?”
“Yeah, couple of crates in the car,” Jess said. “That should keep people going. Let’s get the stuff in.”
By the time we’d emptied my old Fiesta of paints, trays, rollers and booze, people were starting to arrive. Ross and Jess took soup duty, and when Mum turned up she joined me by the door to meet and greet. After everyone had assembled, there were an encouraging 30 or so packed in kipper-style.
Other than friends and family, I recognised a couple of ladies from the Women’s Institute, my old Brown Owl, some kids and parents from Mum’s youth club, a few students from the college I worked at and a load of others I didn’t know. Some of the councillors from the meeting we’d gone to were there as well, including –
“Oh God, not him,” I muttered to Mum.
She followed my gaze and frowned. “Alex. What’s he doing here?”
“Representing the council, probably. But that’s not who I meant.” I nodded towards Councillor Langford. He was leaning against the wall, looking around the lighthouse like he owned the place. “That’s the wanker who gave us such a hard time over the funding.”
“Oh. Arthur Langford,” Mum said. “Yeah, I’ve had a few brushes with him over the youth club. Man seems to think kids should be locked in a box till they’re 21.” She patted my arm. “Well, you got what you wanted. Don’t let him ruin your moment.”
“Er, right. My moment.” I shot a panicked look over the sea of faces waiting to be given instructions. “What do I do now then?”
“What, you haven’t written a welcome speech?”
“Was I supposed to?”
She shook her head. “Useless, lass. All right, just thank them for coming, explain the project and tell them what they have to do. And don’t forget to mention the donations bucket.”
“God, can’t you do it? I know half these people from when I was a kid. Look.” I nodded towards a bespectacled older lady. “There’s Mrs Abberley, our old lollipop lady.”
“No,” Mum whispered back. “You and Ross are the faces of Project Mad Lighthouse, it has to be one of you.”
“Ugh. Fine.” I summoned a weak smile and raised my voice so I could be heard across the room. “Um, hi everyone, thanks for coming. Er…” I cast an anxious glance over my shoulder at Ross and Jess and they sent me a supportive thumbs-up each. “So, yeah. Welcome to the lighthouse project. Ross and me, er, we’re hoping to give a new lease of life to the old place so that, with the help of all of you, we can take it back to its glory days. We’ve got soup and rolls for those who’ve offered their time, and a beer when we’re done.” I felt Mum nudge me. “Oh! And there’s a donations bucket by the door, so please give generously.”
The crowd were still looking at me expectantly. God, what did these people want from me? Off-the-cuff public speaking wasn’t exactly my forte. I cast around for a get-out.
“Well, that’s all from me. Here’s Ross with more.” I turned to him with panicked eyes, silently begging him to come to my rescue.
“Thanks very much, cowardy custard,” he muttered when he’d come over to flank me on the other side.
“Come on, you’re a singer, aren’t you?” I whispered back. “You should be used to this.”
“Yeah, and you’re a teacher.”
“That’s different. I don’t have to teach Mr Madison.” I nodded to an overweight, grizzle-headed man who’d once been head of our Year 9.
“Shit, it is him as well, isn’t it? Oh God… right. I can do this.” Ross cleared his throat. “Er, hello, Cragportians.” He gave the crowd a shy nod. “I wanted to say, um… thanks for turning up this afternoon to support a project we hope will not only put the lighthouse back in her rightful place as queen of the coastline, but also provide a much-needed creative outlet for our young people. A project very close to our hearts.”
Mum shot me a significant glance. She was right, he was good at this. I’d noticed it at the council meeting too, that eloquence the lighthouse brought out in him.
The crowd were all attentive ears as he went on.
“You all know my uncle, Charlie Mason. Many of you will also remember his late wife Annie.” He seemed to be warming to his subject now, the old fire in his eyes – lighthouse fever, I’d started to think of it. “This project marks the culmination of two dreams: Annie’s of seeing our lighthouse restored to the pride of the town, and mine of providing young musicians with a place of their own to rehearse and perform.” He gestured to me. “And I couldn’t have taken it this far without the inspiration, hard work and sheer bloody-mindedness of my partner in this project, Roberta Hannigan, who convinced me those dreams combined could be the future of the lighthouse.” He beamed across the crowd. “So I guess all that’s left to say is thanks for coming and thanks for believing in us. There’s some literature in the outhouse if you want to find out more about our plans. Now let’s get our sleeves rolled up and do some work so we can all have a drink.”
There was a ripple of applause and a few cheers as Ross came to the end of his speech, presumably from those who’d appreciated the offer of a drink.
“Bloody hell, where did that come from?” I whispered.
“I have literally no idea,” Ross ventriloquised back from behind his teeth. “Sound ok?”
“Brilliant. Nice one, Mason.”
He turned back to the crowd, noting the muttered conversations. “Oh, sorry,” he said. “Any questions before we get going?”
“I’ve got a question,” a silver-haired man who I recognised as chairman of the Cragport Clean Beaches Association called out. “How much is this going to cost?”
I flushed, thinking of Mum’s reaction when I’d shown her the figure. “Well, it won’t be cheap,” I admitted. “But we’re confident that with fundraising and grant applications we can –”
“Two hundred grand,” a voice called out. “At a conservative estimate.”
All eyes turned to look at the speaker. It was Langford, of course, still leaning against the wall with a smug expression on his face.
“Bloody hell!” a man in the crowd said. “And where’s that coming from?”
“Your wallet, so far.” Langford flicked at his cuff as if he’d spotted a speck of dirt sullying it. “They’ve had a large grant from the council already to cover the clean-up. We’ll see them again when it runs out, no doubt.”
I glared at him. “That’s not true. Most of the clean-up money came from Coastal Heritage.”
“Sixty grand of it was public money though. Wasn’t it, Miss Hannigan?”
“I thought that costing was confidential,” Ross said, scowling. “We’ve revised it since then anyway, it’s closer to 180 than 200. And Bobbie and I have set aside a fighting fund of £20,000 we’re personally prepared to invest should we need it.”
There was a buzz through the crowd, but I couldn’t tell if it was on Langford’s side or ours.
“I think you’ll find your costing is a matter of public record, Mr Mason. All there in our minutes,” Langford said with an acid smile. “Not that it matters. One hundred, two hundred. It’s still Cragport’s pockets you’re picking.”
There was a definite hostile hum now. We were losing them.
“Shit, what do we say?” I muttered to Ross in panic, but he looked just as adrift as I felt.
“And how much public money were you planning to spend on the lighthouse, Arthur?”
Alex. I shot him a look of relief for coming to our rescue, then quickly pulled my gaze away before he noticed.
Langford seemed confused for a second, but quickly recovered. “The figure I proposed would have put the lighthouse in the hands of officials with its best interests at heart. It would have been an investment in the future.”
“How much, Councillor?” Ross said. “Answer the man.”
“How much is neither here nor there.”
Alex turned to address the assembled crowd. “It was 70 grand. 70 grand of taxpayers’ money. And that was just for the purchase, never mind the clean-up.” He gave his colleague a falsely apologetic shrug. “Sorry, Arthur. As you say, all there in the records.”
Langford glared at him. “You’re out of order.”
Alex snorted. “Please. We’re not in a meeting now, you can’t whip me into submission with agenda and due process. I’ll speak my mind and damned if you’ll stop me.” He nodded to me and Ross. “Bobbie and her partner have shown passion and commitment you couldn’t begin to understand. They’re the future of the lighthouse, and as long as they’re at the helm I’m behind them. So are we all.”
“You can’t speak for me, young man. I may have a few years on the clock but I can still just about form an opinion of my own,” said an elderly gentleman, flashing Alex a resentful look. He turned to Langford. “You there. Cocky. What would you do with the lighthouse then, if you got your hands on it?”
Langford preened at the sudden, unexpected support. “Make it an asset to the town, of course. The council want to turn it into a visitor centre and tearoom.”
“Typical,” I heard a woman near me mutter to her husband. “All about bloody tourists as usual. The kids round here never get a look-in.”
Alex scoffed. “The council. There is no council, Arthur. There’s only you,” he said. “Well, as you’re a public servant with the town’s interests solely at heart, perhaps you’d like to tell us what your daughter does for a living?”
“What?” Langford frowned. “What’s that got to do with anything?”
“Every time we have a council meeting we’re obliged to declare vested interests in agenda items at the start, aren’t we? And yet strangely, the fact Cheryl runs a catering company never comes up.”
The crowd were vibrating now, and I heard cries of “Shame!” rippling through. Alex and Langford were still bickering, but the background volume was so loud I couldn’t hear a word.
Mum peeled away from me, a determined look on her face, and moved next to a bemused-looking Jess behind the soup table. Taking off one strappy sandal, she bashed it loudly against the tabletop.
“Oi! Shut it, you lot,” she yelled.
Instantly the volume dropped. No one messed with my mum when she was at her shouty, scary best.
“So. I get it now,” Mum said to Langford when the noise had died down. “Cheryl Sharp of Sharp Sarnies. That’s your daughter, is it?”
“Not a bad little earner, her dad pushing cafes into major tourist attractions so she can do the food,” the Clean Beaches man called out. “We’re not as stupid as you might think round here, Councillor, for all that we managed to elect you.”
Langford looked nervous now, his back flat against the wall like a cornered animal.
“This is slanderous. My integrity as council chair is beyond question,” he said, trying to sound indignant. “It’s common knowledge my daughter owns a catering company, and I assure you we follow the correct procedures in every respect. All contracts for public venues and events must be passed by the whole council.”
“And yet it always seems to be Sharp Sarnies that gets every catering contract in the end, doesn’t it?” Alex said.
“That’s right, Sharp’s did the school funday on the council’s recommendation,” Mrs Abberley called out.
“And the Cragport Carnival,” shouted someone else. “Sandwiches were crap as well.”
Langford looked hunted, but he pulled himself up straight, ready for his last hurrah.
“And what about your vested interest, Alex? Have you declared that? Surely these people deserve to know.”
“I’m sorry?” Alex said.
Langford nodded towards me. “This young lady. You lived together for a period, I think?”
Ross turned shocked eyes on me. “That’s not true, is it?” he whispered.
I flushed. “Yes. We broke up last year.”
“Jesus, Bobbie! Why didn’t you tell me?”
I frowned. So Ross could go on dates and not say a word but I was obliged to share every detail of my relationship history with him, was that it?
“It’s… complicated,” I muttered back. “Messy break-up. Look, we’ll talk about it another time, ok?”
“That’s right, we were a couple,” Alex said to Langford. “This is a small town, there are plenty of people with a shared history. What of it? I don’t stand to gain financially.”
“Don’t think we can’t see through you, Alex,” Langford sneered. “This transparent attempt to curry favour with your ex-girlfriend won’t wash, I’m afraid.”
But it was desperation speaking. The crowd were Team Alex now, and Langford’s battle for Cragport’s hearts and minds was lost. The cries of “Shame!” aimed at him were becoming louder, and I even heard a “Resign!” from one particularly terrifying WI lady.
“I don’t know, it seems to be washing white enough from here,” Alex said with a smug smile.
The crowd were closing rank, openly jeering now as Langford edged towards the door.
“Time to go, Arthur,” Alex said. “Don’t feel too bad. Happen you’ll win the next battle.” The crowd laughed as Langford turned and stalked angrily out of the lighthouse.
Chapter 10
Once Langford was gone, things calmed down a bit. Ross and I divided the crowd into two, half to tackle the inside of the lighthouse and half the outside, and people set to work with a bad-guy-defeated camaraderie that made for a very matey atmosphere.
An hour in, I was rollering a patch of wall with magnolia emulsion, Mum next to me in her faded denim dungarees tackling a patch of her own. There was a hum of happy chatter round the room, and some enterprising soul had gone home to rustle up a portable radio so we could enjoy a bit of music. Seemed appropriate, given what we were working towards.
“Not looking bad, is it?” I said to Mum, scanning the tube of lighthouse. The walls were about half covered with glistening snow-fresh paint. It made the place look brand new, and bigger somehow. So different from the grey, mossy mess Ross and I had stumbled into, nursing our hangovers and wondering if this was the biggest mistake we’d ever make, nearly three months ago.
Mum cast her eyes around the other volunteers approvingly. “Yeah. Lovely to see everyone come together.”
“I know, never thought we’d –”
I broke off when I heard a “hem” at my shoulder. Turning, I found Alex, the hero of the hour, lurking
behind me.
“Hi, girls.” He smiled at Mum. “How are you keeping, Janine? Been a long time.”
“Not long enough. Bye, Alex.” Mum turned away and went back to rollering her wall.
He looked a little crestfallen at the rebuff, but he didn’t leave.
“Bobbie, any chance of a word?”
“If you must,” I said. “What is it?”
“In private, I meant.”
I shook my head. “Don’t think so, do you?”
“Just five minutes. I won’t say anything to upset you, I promise. It’s important.”
“Lighthouse important or us important?”
“Both. Look, I’m not going to ask if you want to get back together or anything,” he said when he saw me still hesitating. “There’s something I want to tell you, that’s all. Please. I earned it, didn’t I?”
I could see Mum shaking her head at me, but I ignored her.
“Well… ok. Five minutes then.”
Weaving through the crowd of painters, I followed him out of the lighthouse. I noticed Ross watching us from behind the soup table as we exited.
Outside, we made our way past the team of volunteers on ladders topping up the lighthouse’s barbershop stripes to my battered Fiesta, parked a little way away at the top of the cliff. Alex smiled when he saw it.
“Are you still driving that old thing?”
“Let’s cut the small talk, eh?” I said, folding my arms. “Just say what you’ve got to say.”
“Oh, Bobs, please don’t be like that.” Alex reached out to take my hand, then thought better of it and dropped his arm to his side.
“How else do you expect me to be?” I swallowed. “Look, I know we’re bound to see each other sometimes. You’re right, it is a small town, and we’re both involved with the community stuff now. But let’s keep it strictly professional, shall we?”
He looked down. “Ok. I mean, we’re adults, I’m sure we can manage to work together without our history getting in the way. But I want to say something to you first. Not as a councillor, as me – someone you loved once.”
Meet Me at the Lighthouse Page 8